Satria's reaction was as amusing as it was predictable. The glass vase of wildflowers set upon her nightstand was the first casualty, glass shattered by a flash of blue magic and flowers shriveled and blackened by frost. The mirror set in the bathroom was next, waves of silver melting and spilling across the tiles like mercury. Violet spared a moment's thought for the poor soul who would inevitably be tasked with restoring the rooms to a livable state.

As entertaining as it was to watch her stalk through her suite, ranting fervently and destroying whatever furniture item or knickknack that was unfortunate enough to catch her attention, Violet eventually coughed lightly, feeling that this had gone on for quite long enough.

"—arrogant half-witted Summer-haired bitch thinks she can involve you for her asinine scheme without so much as—what was that?" Satria narrowed her eyes at Violet. "Are you even paying attention?"

"Yes, yes, arrogant, red hair, old crone, I get the picture. But perhaps we could consider what she actually said?"

Satria raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe I called her a crone."

"Oh. I suppose that must be what she said about you, then."

She pursed her lips. "Typical. I still think this is just some sort of elaborate deception."

Violet rolled her eyes. "As I said, she was very forthright in her statements. Silver tongue or no, she still can't tell an outright lie."

"She doesn't need to lie when she can deceive your very mind. Did you not say that she placed you under a glamour?"

"Briefly," Violet said curtly. She took great pride in her skill in mental magic, and that Maeve had managed to dupe her even for a short time was a bit of a sore spot. "Very briefly."

Satria's lips curled "Of course. Yet surely you cannot deny that Maeve is a serpent-tongued devil, exhibiting all the worst traits of Mab and beyond."

"I didn't say to trust her," Violet said with a tired sigh. They had already been over this several times. "But if we are truly faced with such a grievous crisis, wouldn't it be wise to have the insight of the one responsible for it? And that's to say nothing of the obvious advantages siding with the insurrectionists will lead to if they are indeed successful. Besides, removing Mab was part of our plan all along."

"The timing cannot possibly be a coincidence," said Satria with a violent shake of her head. "She approaches you scant months before you allegiance to my court expires, with a carefully concocted story to draw you into her influence. Perhaps when her lieutenant was struck down she saw an opportunity to replace her with you."

Violet frowned. "Surely you don't think I would betray you for Maeve."

"Of course not!" Satria almost shouted, making the walls tremble as sheets of cold air rippled from her. "But as Maeve could not possibly comprehend real loyalty, that won't stop her from trying. And that this ridiculous plot comes to fruition just as you plan to divert your attention to the mortal world only exacerbates my suspicion. Maeve even admitted to dealing with the mortal world, for Winter's sake!"

"I think you're giving her just a little too much credit. If you're actually trying to convince me that she somehow instigated Voldemort's return just to separate me from you, I will take my leave." Violet snorted. "That you dismiss her story as absurd only to propose a theory even more far-fetched is beneath you."

"I am aware!" Satria erupted. "But I'm at a loss here. I can see why she would want you in her service, but I don't understand why she would need such a convoluted deception, and that worries me. It suggests that she is so many steps ahead of me—us—that we can't even be sure we would recognize her trying to betray any so-called alliance. Her ability to arrange a violent insurrection in the span of a few short years after an eternity of satisfaction in her role only speaks further to her potential for maddened genius and capriciousness."

Satria shook her head, voice dropping to a whisper. "And, worse than all that, is the possibility—however slight—that she may be telling the truth, that she may have truly banished the most powerful fae every to walk the hallowed lands of Winter to a place of madness, corrupting him so fundamentally that he now seeks to destroy his very nature! And you tell me that she is trying to involve you in that, and that doesn't bother you in the slightest?"

Violet tilted her head, acknowledging Satria's words and the vehemence with which they were spoken. Then, she said, "Your point is well made. Yet, I am no stranger to walking a path set by the stars. Should I be so distraught by a fallen son of Winter when, since before my very birth, I have been doomed to do battle with a mortal who has mocked Death?"

Satria let out a sharp laugh. "Perhaps you are right. I suppose that if I wanted a peaceful life, I should never have struck a bargain with your mother in the first place. Very well, let us seize the reins of power, and should the traitoress herself seek to drive a blade into our backs, let her find our own in hers first." Her lips twitched. "I thought it would be decades, perhaps centuries before our plan could possibly come into fruition. It seems our schedule will have to be moved up."

"And if Esrid truly comes?"

Her countenance darkening, Satria only said, "Then we will see if whatever dark mantle the Distant Lands have seen fit to bestow upon him will hold back the curse of iron."

Violet smiled and rested a hand on Satria's shoulder, even as slender yew trembled in her sleeve, alight with anticipation.

~#~

It was two days until the Solstice Night. Since her meeting with Maeve, the air of the Court seemed to have a monumental weight that could be neither described nor ignored. In shadowed corners and under rippling fountains so thick as to be like waterfalls and along the secluded paths through the numerous courtyards and parks of the Court, Violet could see figures huddled together, exchanging sharp words laced with unspoken meaning. It was subtle, and were she not clued in, she might miss it entirely, attributing it to the constant level of politicking and conspiracy natural to any fae court. But this was different; Maeve was making final preparations, consolidating her support for the coup.

Maeve herself seemed to be suffering from an abundance of free time, if her near-stalking of Violet was anything to go by. The royal fae was making a habit of brushing past her in the halls far more often than could possibly be explained by coincidence, and when she came up with some excuse to speak to Satria on one matter or another, her eyes would scarcely leave Violet. Satria was being driven nearly apoplectic by it all, convinced that Maeve was trying to influence Violet somehow. Violet had a different interpretation; in that secluded meeting, perched on an island of the sky, Maeve had shown real nervousness, even distress. It was more likely that she was only trying to reassure herself that Violet would stick to the plan.

Violet meticulously ignored reacting to her presence, unwilling to allow her ominous presence to taint her first visit to the High Court, the throbbing heart of Winter. There was an electricity to the air, fueled by the anticipation of a city full of beings directly connected to the magic of their world. It was apparent in the spontaneous celebrations across the Court, as groups of fae broke into song and mesmerizing dance in the streets, on the rooftops, and between the ancient, towering trees.

Violet did not participate herself, preferring to watch from afar. There was something of a culture shock to this place, so different from the more martial atmosphere in the outer courts. Here, one could almost forget about Summer entirely, and privately, Violet didn't think the inhabitants were the better for it. Constant war forced a mindset more set in the concrete and rational, encouraging creativity and initiative. In a way, the danger—even if not usually permanently lethal in nature—encouraged a more "mortal" perspective.

Here, all the worst characteristics of the fae were present in abundance. Without strife to fuel ambition, the inhabitants of the Court were content to while eternity away on small matters, petty feuds and fleeting pleasures. She was starting to see why Satria so loathed coming here; the frivolous ethos of the inner courts could not be more different from her own fierce ambition, which Violet was coming to realize was the exception among the fae, not the norm.

Perhaps it was simply part of the cost of immortality, the same cost that held their tongues from forming untruth and caused the nearly universal volatile callousness of the fae. For all their beauty, agelessness, grace and power, there was still something deeply fundamental in the hearts of men that they lacked. Or was it more accurate to say that they were free from the burdens of mortals?

No matter. Violet dispelled her wandering thoughts as she alighted on the floating island that would host the main event of the Solstice. From a distance, she could see the hurried preparations, distant figures scurrying to and fro. A great dome of glass had been erected, easily a hundred meters in diameter. Unfortunately, with the light gleaming off it, she couldn't see inside clearly. That was unfortunate; she had about as much confidence in Maeve's hastily formulated coup going off without bloodshed as she did in in Satria's ability to make it through a civil conversation with Maeve without resorting to violence. That was to say, none at all. It would have been nice to get a feel for the area before it was obscured by conjured mist and atmospheric lighting, but it was looking like that wouldn't be an option now.

"You there!" A haggard looking man wearing the ivory white uniform of the groundskeeping staff hurried toward her, holding tightly onto a wide-brimmed hat that was threatening to blow away in the high altitude winds. "Finally. Alinne sent you, yes? Where the fuck are the damn flowers?"

Violet stared. "I haven't the faintest clue what you're talking about."

He groaned. "Damn! I told her—some halfwit crushed part of the central floral arrangement. When I find him, I swear—never mind." He shook his head, visibly nervous. "You go tell Alinne that if we don't get the flowers by tomorrow, I'll make sure it's not just me who gets nailed to the wall for this."

Violet sneered. Clearly this simpleton had mistaken her for a member of the staff. In fairness, there wasn't much legitimate reason for any of the visiting dignitaries to be here. Just as she was about to deliver a cutting remark to correct his foolish presumption, she was struck by a much better idea. She smiled brightly. "What's this you say about flowers?"

~#~

Violet assessed the crisis with a steady eye. A dark fluid spread across marble steps, seeping from crushed and mangled tissue. About a dozen figures dressed in the same elegantly cut groundskeeper's uniforms stood silently in a circle, staring in horror.

My, my. That may as well be the servants' blood if they don't manage to fix it by the Solstice.

She whistled slowly. "Oh man, that's a real problem." A throne, carved in curving lines from a solid block of oak, sat on a raised dais, overlooking a large marble-tiled dance floor. Though incomplete, the hall was beautifully decorated, dripping with gold and silver. Lines of carefully placed bouquets denoted the separation of the dance floor from the ballroom proper. The lines of flowers led to the dais, which was mounded in shades of white, red, blue, and palest pink, each petal placed with the greatest deliberation. That is, except for the large section of crushed and disturbed flowers, shaped suspiciously like a figure.

"Did someone trip?" she asked, trying to stop amusement from coloring her voice. Dead silence answered her. Bending a knee, she ran a finger though a length of woven white lilies, paler and more delicate than anything the mortal world could possibly offer. "What are these?"

The man in charge of the preparations, the same one who mistook her as some lowly messenger girl, licked his lips nervously. "Prince of Lilies."

"And? Why haven't you replaced them?"

"Why do you think, you stupid girl? They grow only around the Origin. If Alinne doesn't have a stock, we're all fucked." He threw up his hands in frustration, cursing under his breath.

Violet said nothing at first, meeting his eyes in silence until he looked away awkwardly, then rose to her feet. She quirked her head. "Perhaps… there is another option."

Perhaps there was something off in her tone, a note of derision out of place coming from the lips of a lowly servant, who should by rights be as terrified as the rest of the circled fae. A short, slender woman coughed, turning to the head groundskeeper. "Avis… who did you say this was again?"

"You know," he muttered, "she never actually said." His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who exactly are you?"

Violet smiled. He looked worried. She smiled wider. "I'm an associate of Maeve." Funnily enough, that was even true, yet revealed absolutely nothing useful, other than the fact that she was definitely not a messenger.

A woman gasped, turning pale. Avis let out a heartfelt groan of despair. Violet didn't stop smiling. The silence stretched, until the fear of the groundskeepers was palpable. Then, she broke into warm laughter. "Pull yourself together, man! If I were going to bite, I'd have done it already."

The short woman from earlier gave her an uncertain look. "Ah, begging your pardon, my Lady," she said hesitantly. "But… what exactly… are you doing here?" She immediately looked regretful, as if she couldn't believe her own audacity.

Violet gave her a warm look. "Why, I'm here to fix your problem, aren't I? We can't have a Solstice Night without Prince of Lilies! Whatever would the Queen think?"

She could see them imagining all too clearly just what Mab might think of this little blunder. Literally, because they weren't exactly masters of Occlumency. She gave them just enough time to contemplate their possible, appropriately gory, fates, before speaking up. "Luckily for you, there's another option."

"Another option?"

"Mm. Let's say that you—all of you—give me, say, four hours alone inside the hall. When you come back, your problem will be gone. And neither of us will need to mention anything to anyone."

"Are you sure that'll work?" Avis asked carefully, clearly torn between doubt and an unwillingness to risk provoking her further. "It would be gauche to restore them with magic."

"Oh? And you're an expert on the intricacies of Winter's power now, are you?" She sneered contemptuously. "Oh wait… you're not. So kindly shut the fuck up and politely thank me for not taking your heart as recompense for your incivility." Layered with arcane power, her words stirred the air into motion, a cold breeze that ruffled cloth and disturbed hair.

Though not a true glamour, and certainly lesser than the Imperius, the strength of her words was enough to draw a response before he even finished deciphering them. "My Lady! This humble worm pleads y-your f-forgiveness." As his mind caught up to his tongue, his face fell in horror.

Violet smiled indulgently. "Of course, all is forgiven. Now, I believe I said four hours?"

His eyes widened. "Right, everyone. Follow me, and give the Lady some space. Quickly, now!"

She watched them as they beat a hasty retreat. Once they were out of eyesight, she restored the flower arrangement with a swift stroke of her wand. Winter magic would indeed have been painfully noticeable, like gluing together a cracked diamond. Mortal magic, though, was able to evoke true changes in the nature of reality without so much as the slightest trace of its use. Magicked flowers were flowers indeed; transfigured iron would burn as truly as if it were only just smelted from crude ore.

She cast a surveying gaze over the still unfinished hall. At its center, there was a raised square stone structure of about five meters in width and length. It was filled with loose earth, and a small grove of trees abloom with sweet-smelling flowers grew from it. Their trunks were thick, clearly coaxed by carefully applied Winter magic to grow unnaturally quickly. With a grin, she approached the indoor garden, caressing her wand absently. She had work to do.

~#~

She emerged exactly three hours and fifty three minutes later, whistling quietly to herself and brushing loose soil off her blouse. The groundskeepers eyed her warily, pointedly not commenting on her appearance. She paid them no heed as she strode past, not looking back toward the dome. With luck, her preparations would go unneeded, but it cost little to be prepared for the worst. Besides, this way if Satria's dire predictions were proven true and Maeve decided to betray them immediately, she would have an ace up her sleeve.

Slipping through the streets back toward Mab's Citadel, she abruptly sighed as she felt a familiar presence. With so many powerful fae present, it was impossible to accurately sense their individual proximities, but there was still a certain instinctual response, halfway between mundane senses and second sight, when she was being stared at. Violet sighed and turned on her heel, ducking into a cramped alley. Well, relatively cramped, anyway. Such a gloomy description couldn't possibly be applied to any architecture of the Court. Even natural plant life seemed to grow in accordance to a grander design in this place.

"You again?" Violet muttered. A hooded figure stood beside her, cloaked by shadows that seemed to stretch from the ground and walls to wrap around her. Under her hood, Violet could just make out a strand of red hair. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"On the contrary, I believe that at this moment you are the most interesting thing in all of Winter," whispered Maeve, her toneless words somehow retaining a musical note. Violet reflexively clutched at her dagger, its cold touch reassuring her that Maeve hadn't managed to slip a glamour over her. Maeve's small smile showed that she hadn't been quite as subtle as she might have hoped.

"Must be the slow season, then."

"For now, perhaps." She slowly circled Violet in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a big cat, forcing her to turn to meet her gaze. "And it seems that such attention is justified. I sought you earlier, but you were not to be found. A curious happenstance, no?"

"How tragic that I was without the blessing of your presence for even fleeting hours," Violet said as sarcastically as she could. "My heart has been pierced, such is the grief of my deprivation."

Maeve made a soft, mirthful sound. "Such a sharp tongue. But I can't avoid noticing that you are being evasive. Do you think this is a wise way to contribute to an alliance predicated upon trust?"

Violet shrugged. Really, she could just tell her where she had been. She had even been working in the interests of their alliance after all, but she ultimately just wasn't willing to satisfy Maeve's curiosity. Petty, perhaps, but something about Maeve's audacity to act the monarch despite approaching Violet for her help grated at her.

She flashed a sharp smile. "I'm afraid I couldn't say. I don't make a habit of trusting stalking vipers."

Maeve tipped her head, a cascade of red slipping from her hood. "So says the hooded serpent to its reflection."

Violet sighed. They could trade poisoned words all day, but it would accomplish nothing. She was starting to sympathize with Satria's general misanthropy for most of her kind. Immortality had a way of encouraging pointless time wasting. Just to annoy her, she extended a strand of Legilimency toward Maeve that was, of course, rebuffed. "Is there something that you want? Or would you rather just keep following me like a haunting specter?"

"Well, I was intending to politely inquire into your whereabouts this morning, but if you aren't feeling helpful…" She trailed off. Violet didn't rise to the bait. With a sigh, she continued, "Then I suppose there is only the matter of the Solstice. Is your wild dog still on your leash?"

"I challenge you to call her that to her face. And I assure you, Satria is hardly on my leash."

"Oh, spare me. That brute hasn't had a complex thought in centuries. It's clear who's really in charge."

Whatever. Not going to involve myself in that feud.

"She already said she was in. Is suppose you'll just have to trust her," Violet said.

Maeve sniffed. "I suppose I will. Ensure she doesn't bungle things too badly."

"It might help if I knew what the plan was. Or are you still working that bit out?"

Maeve made a dismissive gesture. "It hardly matters. We will wait until the end of the Night, when dear Mab is blind drunk. Then I'll draw her attention, and you'll end her permanently. As long as she dies immediately, we should be able to avoid a bloodbath."

"You want me to kill her?" Violet asked, arching an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's wise? We'd be upsetting over a hundred thousand years of balance, destroying who knows how many alliances and accords."

"Exactly. Mab has died before, but her power is great, and she inevitably returns, and quickly. What's more, the Lords and Ladies know that she will return and, as such, would never support us unless they were somehow assured Mab will not return on freezing winds, seeking vengeance against all who sided against her. Your presence simplifies matters; previously, I was planning to get creative."

Violet snorted. "I think we've had quite enough of your 'creative' solutions, thank you." She sighed, rubbing her forehead. "Fine. I fear we are both damned for it, but fine."

Maeve smiled beatifically.

Violet sighed. "Right." The plan was simple at least, which she would happily take over an excessively convoluted scheme doomed to suffer unplanned complications. "If there's nothing else?"

Maeve giggled, an irritatingly dishonest sound when coming from a being of her ancient stature. "Why Violet, I would almost think you were eager to be rid of me." At Violet's unimpressed look, she continued, "Oh, very well. I can tell when my presence is undesired. We will have ample time to get to know each other better when I am Queen and you are free of your little agreement."

Before Violet could retort, Maeve vanished in a spray of fine snow that made her splutter. Her dramatic exit was slightly compromised by the fact that she couldn't possibly have teleported more than a few hundred meters through the magically dense space of the Wyld. In any case, Violet wasn't about to complain about the opportunity to continue on her way without feeling eyes on her. Of course, there was also the possibility that Maeve was still watching her but had somehow concealed herself beyond Violet's ability to detect, but that sort of conjecture accomplished nothing besides intensifying her already considerable paranoia.

With one last furtive glance at the presumably empty rooftops, she gathered her cloak around her and returned to the main streets. A cool tingle spread over her nose. Holding out a hand, she saw tiny white flecks drifting down to collect in it. It had started to snow.

~#~

Over the coming night and well into the next day, that gentle flurry grew into a fierce storm. Snow so thick as to white out the sky fell unceasingly, amid vicious winds that rattled windows and made even the stoutest of stone shudder. In dire tones, Satria proclaimed it an omen of ill fortune and retired early. Once she did, Violet paid a surreptitious visit to Lyle, their stalwart ambassador. Knowing Satria, she would have maintained complete secrecy, even to her most trusted. Violet rather liked the man though and wouldn't want to see him caught in a crossfire. She politely suggested that he retire early from the celebration, and he was shrewd enough to recognize the meaning she did not give voice to.

Night stretched into day, and day into night, but the storm did not relent. It seemed that Winter saw fit to demonstrate its might right up until the Solstice Night itself. And so it was that on the night in question, figures trickled into the great domed hall of glass under shields of blue or silver to ward off the howling winds and protect their splendid garments from the sleet and snow.

They had arrived fashionably late, of course, though in Satria's case it might have been motivated by a desire to minimize the amount of time spent socializing before Maeve made her move.

From inside the hall, Winter's wrath could be seen but not heard, waves of snow breaking over the arched roof. A porter directed them to their seats at the first table, Mab's throne at its head. Seemingly bored with proceedings, the Queen of Winter sat languidly upon it, a wineglass balanced in one hand. Her hair was black, but there was a slight reddish sheen to the light reflecting off it, suggesting that perhaps she and Maeve truly did share blood. Glamours hung about her, so tightly woven that it was impossible to tell whether her almost magnetic presence was artificial or simply a natural result of the confluence of beauty and power.

Violet took her seat silently. To her right was Satria and her left was the guest of some Lord of the inner courts with a short gray beard and piercing eyes. She sat between Violet and her Lord and had the look of a brawler, presumably filling the role of bodyguard rather than socialite. Half of her hair was shaved short, the other long and cast over her head, covering the shaved side. Curiously, her sleeveless dress revealed a curving scar that stretched from wrist to forearm.

Only a wound inflicted by iron or mortal magic would leave such a lingering mark, suggesting a willingness to risk her immortality that some might call reckless. Ironically, anyone who didn't know Violet's true nature might think the same of her, as she still had not fully gained the fae trait of perfect healing.

As Satria was reluctantly drawn into conversation, Violet amused herself by trying to guess who knew something was coming by their demeanor. It was a great challenge, as fae generally betrayed their thoughts far less easily than mortals, but a few were not so composed. A woman with elaborately coiffed hair kept glancing nervously between Maeve and Mab, and a man with skin as bleached as birch bark had a calculating look in his black eyes.

The bodyguard nudged her with her elbow, drawing her attention. She jerked her head toward the various politically important figures of Winter, many of whom had now left the tables and formed small circles of discussion, their lips loosened by freely flowing wine. She rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure why they even expect us to be here," she whispered.

Violet shrugged. "Beats sitting around in some backwater."

"I suppose." She grinned slyly. "But you're not from some backwater, are you? If I'm not mistaken, that's Lady Satria you're accompanying."

Violet hummed in acknowledgment.

"I knew it," the bodyguard whispered. "It must be thrilling to be positioned so close to Summer. Is the fighting constant, then?"

"It was, some years ago," Violet replied. "But we reminded them why they should not grow too ambitious."

"Fascinating," she said, caressing each syllable. "For a nominally minor court, there have been an unusual number of rumors regarding it, of late. Is it true that your Lady slew a Lord of Summer in single combat?"

Violet smirked. "Officially speaking, that's the story. What matters is that he's dead."

"Indeed," she said, glancing over to check on her Lord, who had left the table and was now conversing softly with another Lord. Seemingly satisfied, she continued, "Of course, that's not the only story they talk about, you know."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes." She leaned closer and, in a tone that brought to mind scandalous rumors and vicious gossip, continued, "Some say that the burning Lord was laid low by cold iron. Not that those of sense wouldn't dismiss such suggestions, of course."

"And you?" asked Violet, allowing some amusement to enter her voice. She rather liked this fae. In a place like this, it was easy to forget that Winter's greatest glory was martial skill and merciless bloodlust, not calculated words, truthful but twisted into something unrecognizable. Subterfuge had its place of course, but in the end, victory was written in blood. Even Maeve understood that, and it seemed that this fae did too.

The bodyguard traced a finger slowly over the scar on her arm. "I would say that I have seen many a strange thing in my time. When one ventures beyond conventional patterns, there is no telling what they might find. And such a thing as a Lord cut down by mortal hands, in the heart of the Wyld? Well, I have seen stranger still."

A ghost of a smile crossed Violet's face, and she leaned closer. "Stranger still, you say? Well, I suggest this: before the sun dawns, you will no longer say such a thing."

The bodyguard's face lit up in excitement, one hand brushing unconsciously against a necklace ornament mostly tucked into her dress that Violet presumed concealed a weapon. "Truly?"

Violet was about to respond when she was interrupted by Maeve from her position next to Mab, who briefly caught her gaze, then jerked her head sharply to one side, mouthing, "Go."

Violet frowned and rose to her feet. "Pardon me a moment."

She began to push through the crowd, crossing the wide dance floor. Maeve kept trying to track her progress and direct her to wherever it was she was going without Mab noticing, but it was difficult to maintain eye contact while weaving between dancing figures. Violet slipped between two dancers, ignoring their squawks of protest. She turned around to see... nothing at all.

Damn.

She spun around, looking for anything out of place. Maeve appeared to be on the verge of getting up herself, frantically motioning to Violet, but it wasn't exactly easy to tell where in the vast hall she needed go by gestures alone.

Suddenly, she heard some sort of commotion coming from the general direction of the first table. She immediately began heading toward it, but by the time she could see what was going on, it was too late.

A disheveled looking man dressed in clothes far too coarse for such an occasion was pushing through the crowd as he approached the first table, ignoring their rising tones of complaint. The left side of his face was one massive bruise, and he was walking with a limp, but he continued doggedly. Already, Violet could see guards moving to intercept him. They were dressed similarly to the guests to avoid drawing attention, but their target was clear. Unfortunately, it was equally clear that they wouldn't make it in time.

"Traitor!" he bellowed, causing the whole hall to fall into silence. "Traitor to the Court!" With an almost painful deliberation, he slowly extended one long, shaking finger. Maeve just looked resigned as it inevitably fell on her.

As one, the hall turned its attention to Maeve as its occupants digested what they had just witnessed. There was a pregnant moment, and then Maeve shrugged elegantly and rose to her feet in a sudden, violent motion, sending her chair falling to the ground as she did. Her arm jerked forward, hand wrenched into the shape of a claw, and the disheveled man let out a scream of agony as he rose into the air, suspended by some unseen force. Maeve clenched her fist, and the man's scream died away as his chest erupted in a fountain of blood. Then, she had to leap away to avoid a bolt of black energy originating from Mab, who had risen too now, and was fixing Maeve with a stare of such dark fury that Violet felt a pang of nerves in sympathy.

Great fucking plan, Maeve.